


Straw in His Hands

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dark Castle, Emotional Sex, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle wonders what it's like to be straw in his hands. </p>
<p>Dark Castle smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straw in His Hands

She watches his hands caress the wheel and a shiver goes down her spine. He’s seated for his evening round of spinning, and now that her chores are finished, Belle can enjoy her nightly tradition of reading by the fire. She takes her seat on the large armchair nearby, book in hand. She tries to read, she truly does. But as fascinating as her tale is, it cannot hold her interest. Instead, her attention is focused on the man across the room.

She could watch him spin all day, she thinks. She has little idea of what despairing thoughts drive Rumplestiltskin to his wheel, but she cannot help but be grateful that he seeks his solace in the steady creaking spinning of his wheel. It’s his sanctuary, the one place where he might find what he so desperately seeks: peace. 

Belle finds she seeks something at the wheel as well, though she doesn’t put a name to it. She knows what it is, but it’s safer this way, to keep the word at bay. Instead of focusing on that, she watches Rumplestiltskin. Specifically, she watches his hands. At the wheel, his hands do not move in the frantic, enthusiastic manner that is so typical of the Dark One. Here at the wheel his hands are slow, gentle, and precise. He’s a master of his craft, Belle thinks, watching in delight as Rumplestiltskin’s hands slip straw between his forefinger and thumb before pulling with his other hand, bringing forth a small thread of shimmering gold.

Sometimes Belle wishes she were a piece of straw, and as she watches Rumplestiltskin spin, as she has every night for the past two months. Tonight, however, she begins to contemplate the idea more closely. How would it feel, she wonders, to have those hands slip over her? She thinks it would be pleasant, to slip through his fingers, to be wrapped around him, so close and touched with such reverence. His hands are so careful with the straw, the gold. Would he treat her with that same tender care? Would he guide her, bend her to his will and make her shimmer in the aftermath?

Those thoughts leave Belle’s cheeks burning bright. Her thoughts have taken quite the unmaidenly turn tonight and she thinks she ought to feel ashamed for the impropriety that has flooded her mind. But then who is to know? Rumplestiltskin is not a mind reader, and she’ll not dare share these thoughts with anyone else. She is secure in her shame, her golden desire, and no one will ever be the wiser for it. No one would believe her at any rate: who could possibly desire the touch of the Dark One, with his stained teeth, strange skin, and wicked mischievousness?

But then no one else has seen him drink from a chipped tea cup, speak of a lost boy with such profound sorrow, or spin straw with the tender touch one might bestow upon a lover. He reaches for more straw, oblivious to her study of him, and Belle bites her lip as he continues his work, putting more straw in and pulling more gold out. 

Oh how Belle wishes to be a piece of straw! 

She continues to watch him for a long while, grateful that he does not once notice her. She can see his profile from her seat near the fireplace, and the intense focus as he works warms her in ways the fire cannot. He slips straw through the flyer and pulls out more gold. It’s a never ending cycle; one that Belle finds mesmerizing, beautiful. She’s transfixed on the motions, Rumplestiltskin’s hands leaving her nearly breathless as they move.

Those hands could so many wonderful things, if only he would let them. While she cannot deny the sheer wonder that is turning straw into gold, Belle cannot help but wonder what other wonders those hands could create. The evidence of his skill is directly before her, coiling at his feet; she has no doubt he could leave her just as limp, as unwound and shimmering as the gold he produces seemingly without thought. If he put his mind to it, he could make so much more. He could create shivers and gasps; he could reach inside her and pull out moans of delight and pleasure. He could create such beauty within her, if only he would put down the straw and reach for her.

He reaches down and retrieves more straw.

With a sigh, Belle forces herself to look away. She regards her book for a moment, stroking the cover as a way to apologize for her neglect. But her desire to read has been utterly replaced by some other kind of desire, this one hot and molten and sitting heavy in the pit of her stomach. She’s warm but chilled, and half in a daze as she stands and moves to where her companion sits hunched over his ever-turning wheel. Without a thought as to her actions, she settles at his feet and carefully picks up the loose end of the gold rope, idly coiling it around her fingers in an effort to keep it from tangling.

It’s with that that Rumplestiltskin finally notices her, but she doesn't quite know what to say. So she focuses on her task, well aware that the wheel has ceased turning and he’s looking at her with that same uncertain curiosity that follows her everywhere she goes. She runs her fingers over the rope, hard as gold should be but somehow equally soft and flexible. It’s smooth, which doesn't surprise her, but the feeling of it against her skin increases the ache that is growing within her. 

She runs her fingers over the thread, twining it about her slim digits in a figure eight pattern until it looks as if she has a multitude of gold rings placed on each finger. She unwinds the rope and begins to re-roll it, stopping when one of Rumplestiltskin’s hands comes to rest atop hers. Belle’s head shoots up, her breath catching as her nose brushes against his. He’s studying her closely, head tilted ever so slightly as if he can’t quite fathom why she’s so near him. He’s yet to figure out that she stays close because she wants to be there.

"What are you doing?"

He’s so quiet and shy in this moment, so unlike the confident, cocky Dark One that struts about the castle in the day time making deals and teasing those that dare face him. But he’s not really that man. This is the real Rumplestiltskin, who stares at her with questioning eyes, afraid that she might recoil from him in fear. He claims he wants to be feared, but now that she’s proven he doesn't scare her, he seems afraid he’ll eventually do something that _will_ frighten her away.

He doesn't know her very well.

He’s also waiting for an answer, but Belle hardly knows what to say. Does she admit that she’s running her hands over golden rope, because it might be the closest she’ll ever get to _him_? As much as she longs to be the straw that slips through Rumplestiltskin fingers, she knows that nothing will ever come of her desire. She thinks he might care for her, but she is not confident enough in that hope, so she dares not reveal her feelings and risk him not returning them. She chooses to keep the truth to herself, and settles for running her hands over gold, wishing that instead of gold wrapped around her, it is his hands, sending thrills down her spine and to that secret place she dares not explore, but hopelessly craves for him to.

"Winding the gold," states at length, lowering her head to concentrate on her task. Her hands are trembling, and she can’t tell if it’s because of nerves or desire. Perhaps it’s both.

"Why?"

She glances up at him, to those reptilian eyes that never seem to stay the same color. Tonight they are a deep, fathomless black. This morning she could have sworn she saw hints of blue.

"Because I cannot spin," she admits, "But I thought I might try your method of forgetting. So while you spin, I shall wind."

"And what would my lady forget?" 

It would be so easy to tell him the truth. But for all her speeches of bravery, she cannot muster the courage.

"I guess it worked," she says instead, smirking at him as she tosses his favorite joke back at him. He laughs softly, accepts the answer, and goes back to spinning. She realizes a little too late how much of a mistake her decision was. Watching Rumplestiltskin from afar had been tantalizing, but now he is within her grasp. His gold is on her hands and she can smell the straw, the leather and wood smoke that defines him. She’s overwhelmed by his presence in this moment, and she finds herself getting warmer. Her heart is beating quickly, she’s practically panting for breath, and there is a heat in her loins that she cannot ignore.

She notices Rumple shift in his seat, and she jerks her head up to see that not only is he staring at her in concern, but he’s ceased spinning again and she’s reached the end of the rope. 

“Are you unwell?” He asks, lifting a hand to rest against her cheek, “You’re flushed.” His hand touches her and Belle is forced to bite her tongue to keep from making a sound. It feels so good to have his hand upon her, even in such a simple manner, but she knows that if she does not get away from him now she’ll do something foolish.

Standing quickly, she surprises Rumplestiltskin and he jerks his hand back, looking as if he’s been struck.

"I’m not sure," she forces out, her voice breathy, "I think I might go lie down." 

With that, she turns and flees the room, feeling the burn of Rumplestiltskin’s touch on her cheek, and the burn of his eyes on her back. 

* * *

When she reaches her bedroom, she collapses against the bed and lets out a grievous moan. She’s so tense, her body stretched taut, and she vows she’ll never watch Rumplestiltskin spin gold again. It’s too much, and if she can no longer watch him without this wretchedly glorious feeling consuming her, she’d rather go back to her naive ignorance of when she merely looked at straw and saw straw, saw gold as gold, and saw Rumplestiltskin as a man to befriend, not desired.

She throws her arms above her head, blinking when she feels a strange weight over her left hand. Glancing back, she looks, horrified to see that the golden thread is still wrapped around her hand. Belle turns her head and presses her nose to arm, sighing in frustration. She’d come here to remove herself from temptation and frustration, but instead she’s found herself alone in her bedroom with nothing but gold thread and an unquenched desire.

Slowly, she lifts her hands and observes the thread, coiled and thin and warm from her touch. It practically vibrates with magic as well, still fresh from Rumplestiltskin’s touch. Lifting her other hand, she begins to unwind the cord from her wrist, not stopping until it lies in a tangled mess on her abdomen. It’s light, but the slight weight is a comfort to her. Idly, she wraps the end of thread around her arm, circling it until it reaches her elbow. She just as carefully unwinds it, and then lifts her leg in the air, skirts falling to rest at her hips, leaving her stocking-ed thigh exposed to any who might dare enter her room. She flexes her foot and started winding the cord over her foot, down her ankle and calf. When she reaches her thigh, there is still an abundance of cord left, but she leaves it dangling over her chest.

_So this is what it is to be wrapped up in him_ , she thinks, admiring her handiwork. That strange but all-too-familiar taut pulsing returns tenfold. She unwinds the string from her, contemplating where else she might place it on her. She stands and wraps it around her waist like a belt, but one look in the mirror on the other end of the room leaves her dissatisfied. It would look much better without her blue dress in the way, but even she is not brave enough to do that just yet. It would be too much, to see his thread wrapped around her where his arms and hands should be, and she has half a mind to throw the cord out her door and hope he finds it if he passes by.

But then she tilts her head, and slowly lifts the thread to her neck. She wraps it around the small expanse, careful not to get it too tight less she hurt herself. When she’s finished, it looks as if she’s wearing a thick choker of gold, and if she closes her eyes, she can pretend it’s Rumplestiltskin’s hands on her neck, holding her lightly in his grasp. The imagined embrace is thrilling, and Belle feels the sensations in her core burst to life again. It’s with such force that she finds herself gripping her skirts between her trembling fingers, and she wishes she could be reckless enough to just reach down and do with her own hand what she’s envisioned Rumplestiltskin doing to her. She’s aroused, has been for some time, and it’s at the point now where she can no longer bear the exquisite pain of being unfulfilled. She needs _something_ , and soon, because as wonderful as it is to be stretched so thin, she’s near the breaking point.

Unable to resist any longer, her hands wander closer. Just as she presses one to her center, she hears a gasp resonate throughout the room. It takes Belle a moment to realize the sound hadn’t come from her lips, and she blinks, glancing over with horror at the sight of Rumplestiltskin standing in her doorway, cup of tea in hand, presumably for her.

Belle swallows thickly, blood running cold. She wants to assure him that this isn’t what it looks like, but then she sees the look in his eyes, and the tell-tale tenting of his leathers and decides to remain silent. It is _exactly_ what it looks like, and from where she’s standing, it looks as if he likes what he sees.

She lifts her hands to the gold rope, thinking maybe she ought to remove it so they can have a nice long talk about what he’s just walked in on, but suddenly he’s before her, two hands covering hers and she lifts her eyes to meet Rumplestiltskin’s.

"Don’t," he breathes softly and his breath warms her lips. His fingers run over the cords, stroking them delicately. "I like seeing you like this."

Belle’s body flutters and leaves her weightless under the dreamlike sensation of rope and hands. “Like what?” She dares ask.

"Covered in my handiwork," he whispers, nuzzling his cheek against hers. "What a sight it would be to see you draped in nothing but gold, my lady."

Slowly, breathlessly, Belle’s hands slip out from under Rumple’s. She meets his eyes in an act of bravery, and begins pulling the strings of her dress. With a surprised groan, Rumple moves to assist her, his fingers sending chills over her. Soon, she is naked, standing before him with body and soul bare for his consuming gaze. With a flick of his wrist, Rumplestiltskin produces a long spindle of gold rope, shimmering in the soft light of the hearth.

"May I?"

"Please."

He nods and Belle wonders if he might snap his fingers and cover her in gold. But then he moves to circle her, taking in her trembling form from her dark eyes and rosy cheeks to her damp thighs. He runs his hand over her, as if testing the canvas on which he is about to paint his masterpiece and Belle whimpers. No, this way is much better. Magic may be a wondrous thing, but this is an intimate task, one that requires hands on skin, not magic.

He pulls the end of the rope from the spindle, and magically attaches it to the end of the line coiled about her neck. He begins his work then, wrapping the rope lightly around her, making sure that every inch of her is touched. Before the rope crosses an expanse of skin, he readies the spot with kisses. Belle cannot help but whimper and sigh as his mouth, hands, and rope cover her body, and as pleasurable as it is to have her arms wrapped in golden bangles, the feeling of the rope as it winds its way over her breasts is even grander. He makes certain her nipples are not covered by gold, but instead by his lips, and Belle finds that she must hold onto him, lest she collapse. He takes pleasure in that, apparently, from the way he smirks against her, and remains attentive to her breasts for some time. 

When she is on the brink of falling apart, he tears himself from her and moves down, much to her equal dismay and delight. He continues his journey downward, his eyes looking up on occasion to meet hers, and she smiles lazily at him, too overwhelmed to do anything more. 

He eventually winds the thread over her waist, down her hips, then over her buttocks. He sinks to his knees and looks up at her wickedly. Belle’s breath catches with eager anticipation of what he’s going to do next. He loops the thread in between her legs, adjusting it so that it caresses her where she is the most desperate for touch, and she cries out at the sensation of finally, _finally_ having him there. He doesn’t use hands or lips, but he may as well have for all the pleasure the touch gives, and she sobs at the sensation that torments her, if only because it’s not enough.

He laughs in soft disbelief at her reaction, but doesn’t add more thread there. He’s purposely teasing her, purposely leaving her wanting and half-mad with desire. He moves down one leg, then winds the rope back up and down the other. He’s binding her to him, gold thread covering every corner of her body. But bound though she is, it’s clear she is not a prisoner. Had he wanted her as such, he’d have bound her legs together; wrapped her wrists in a golden bow above her head. But just as he’s captured her, he’s also preserved her freedom. She can stop this at any moment, she understands. She can push him away, or wrap herself around him and bring him closer. For all that she is covered in him, she is still her own master. It’s a gesture that makes her love him even more. 

He stands at last and allows himself a moment to observe his masterpiece. At any other time, Belle might feel silly, being covered in such a way. But it’s Rumplestiltskin’s gold, wrapped about her by Rumplestiltskin’s hands, and in this moment Belle finally understands what it means to be consumed. She’s covered in him, by him, and though she prides herself in believing no one is property to another, in this moment she is utterly and irrevocably _his_.

He lays her down on the bed, then moves to hover over her, drinking in the sight of her like a blind man whose vision has just been restored. Belle lifts a hand to touch his face, and he sighs against her, leaning down to capture her lips with his own. It’s light, a hesitant brush, but Belle feels it radiate through her very soul. Then his hands are upon her, raking over the gold and her skin everywhere at once and yet not where he _should_ be, and Belle’s head falls back as the smooth ropes and rough hands burn her to her core.

Through the haze of her arousal, she wonders what he’ll do next. Then his fingers are on her, rubbing the thread and _her_ , and Belle finds herself unable to do anything but _feel_. The only thing she can think to do to convey her pleasure is to burst, but she resists because as tortuous as this is, it’s exactly what she’s always wanted, and now that he’s here she wants it to _last_. Following his fingers, Rumple’s mouth begins to kiss and lick a path down Belle’s body, pressing kisses to her neck, breasts, even her core, leaving Belle awash in the sensation of absolute pleasure.

"Tell me what you want, my dear," she hears him growl even as his lips suck her to a delirious high, "Command me and I shall make you see stars."

Forming words requires too much focus away from the glory that is pulsing through her veins, hotter than the fire that consumes her skin where golden thread and hands rub and caress, but she manages. “I want to see them.”

“Then you shall.” 

He caresses her folds with his spinner’s fingers, twisting her into a state of electric bliss. She writhes under his ministrations, fingers and gold thread teasing her. She is straw in his hands, transforming under his touch. She can feel nothing but him, surrounding her, inside her, and it is more wonderful than she could have ever imagined. 

At length she begins to shake, the pleasure washing over her in white hot waves as she cries out Rumplestiltskin’s name, her whole body singing as he plays her to the very edge of bliss. She falls over that edge, and after a moment of trembling wondrously from the experience, she’s able to breathe and open her eyes to the wizard who is looking down at her with such awe. 

Once upon a time, she imagined Rumple’s wheel an altar, and the straw his offering. Now she envisions herself the altar where Rumplestiltskin may lay his offerings. Her body shall be his temple, a place where he can find solace when the wheel cannot seem to achieve her task. 

She smiles and stretches out her gold-wrapped hand to him and pulls him down, eager to feel his lips upon hers. She tastes herself on his lips, a strange sensation, but pleasant nonetheless. He groans against her, and suddenly Belle feels the evidence of his own arousal pressing against her. She’d noticed it when he stepped into the room, but now it is impossible to ignore, not that she wants to. He’s made her come alive under his touch; now she wants to make him feel the same, to shower him with affection and joy, to see him as breathless as he’s left her. 

She wants to unmake him, and then piece him back together as a thing of pure beauty: as the man she’s always known he is. While she holds no magic at her fingertips, she does hold desire and love. She can instill those things in him, wrap him up as he’s draped his gold thread over her. They can become a thing of beauty, covered in gold and love. 

The thread is still pressing against her in spots, reigniting the pleasure that has been her companion for so long this evening. It’s more of a dull ache now, a pleasant pulse in her loins that will find equal pleasure in seeing Rumplestiltskin fall apart under her. She pulls away from him, just barely, loving the darkness that has come over his eyes. This is not the shadowy black of sorrow and regret; this is a darkness that she understands. It is desire and need, a longing to have this become more than just imaginings and daydreams. 

She pushes him slightly and he rolls onto his back, not resisting when she moves to sit astride him. Her modesty has long since vanished, but there’s something utterly scandalous about sitting astride a man with her breasts bare, save for a thin strip of gold that doesn’t cover and only titillates. She revels in it, and takes pleasure from the friction of the smooth rope and the red hot blaze of Rumplestiltskin’s stare. 

“You are a thing of beauty,” he whispers, hands coming up to cup her golden breasts. She sighs and lets her head fall back, unable to resist a shiver as he pinches her nipple. 

While he toys with her, Belle reaches down and begins work on his leather breeches, not pausing in her efforts until she manages to get them down around his knees. He’s free then, and Belle marvels at the sight of Rumplestiltskin’s cock, hard and shimmering like his skin, his eyes, and the gold. 

“I’ve imagined this,” she whispers, causing Rumple’s hands to falter. He looks up to her eyes and she smiles at him reassuringly. “I can hardly watch you spin without imagining this.” 

“My maid has been entertaining naughty thoughts of my spinning wheel, eh?” Rumple teases even as she grips him, and his eyes roll back for a moment. 

“Not so much the wheel as your hands,” she admits, stroking him as the subject of her fantasies move to grip her waist. 

“And…what about my hands?” His hands slide lower, squeezing her hips as he cries out. 

“Do you truly not know how….pleasing it is to watch you work?” She squeezes him back and he groans again. 

“Not nearly as much as this,” he manages, shifting under her as his breath catches. Belle smiles, pleased that she can have a similar effect on him as he has on her. 

“The way you run your fingers over the straw,” she explains, unable to keep from rocking her hips, “You’re so gentle. Every touch is full of care, and I watch and pretend I’m the straw.” Her eyes slip shut and she releases him in favor of pressing her center against him. 

Leaning closer, which causes the ropes to shift pleasurably against her skin, she presses a kiss to his lips, “I’m aching, Rumplestiltskin.”

"Well, I certainly hate to see you in such distress," he manages to growl, “Tell me all that you desire of me, Belle.”

“I want you,” she breathes, “I’ve wanted you for so long. I want your touch, your pleasure, your company…your love.”

He lowers his hand to where they are not quite joined, and with a quick flick of his finger, the golden rope is cut from her, no longer a pleasurable obstacle between them. Belle gasps and wiggles against him. 

“I want all of that as well,” he replies.

She smiles. “Then have it, Rumplestiltskin.” 

He presses inside her, and Belle feels her whole world crash in a burst of fire and heat. It’s nothing like her governess’ taught her, and better than what the maids whispered about when they thought she wasn’t paying attention. It’s different, to be sure, but Belle has always thrived on different, and to feel him so snug between her thighs is a pleasure far greater than any she has ever known. She is full of him, covered with him, and it is the most glorious feeling.

They move together, Belle’s eyes wide and mouth hanging open as she feels Rumple move in and out of her. He’s gripping her hips, guiding her through the pleasure. It’s too much, more than the desperate longing from before, and she feels the peak of her pleasure bubbling up inside of her, rapidly racing to the surface. Just as she’s filled with him, the sensation of the gold rubbing her skin is equally pleasurable, and Belle groans as the rope moves with her.

She presses her lips to Rumple’s once more, frantic and hungry. Suddenly she’s on her back, a feat that had to have been accomplished by magic, and Rumplestiltskin’s lips and hands are all over her, hips are moving hard and fast. Her whole body is subject to his ministrations, and it soon becomes too much; she’s encompassed by him, and finally Belle cannot contain herself anymore and simply falls apart at the seams. Rumple follows her a moment later, and the look on his face as he comes undone within her makes her see the stars he promised her.

Panting, Rumple collapses to her side. Belle’s own chest is heaving, as she comes down from the high she’s been riding, and she turns her head to regard the man beside her. He’s looking at her in amazement, like he can’t believe what just transpired between them.

If she’s honest, she can’t believe it either. But she’s certainly glad it’s come to pass.

Rumple raises his hand and lets it rest against her for a moment. She feels something creep over her, and when she glances down, the gold has vanished from her. It had been a pleasant weight, warm and comforting, but now she’s left cold. Sensing her chills, Rumple moves closer and slowly pulls her to him.

"I don’t want you to be uncomfortable," he says softly.

"It wasn't uncomfortable," she whispers back, "I rather enjoyed it." She waits a beat and adds, " _All_ of it.”

"All of it," he repeats, then says after a moment, "You said you wanted my love."

"You said you wanted mine too," she counters.

"I do.”

"So do I."

"Then you have it," Rumple says, moving to sit up slightly. He twists his hands in front of him, and produces a small golden bracelet. He slips it on Belle’s wrist, and she looks at him curiously. 

"Since you cannot walk around in nothing but gold," he says with a wicked smirk that suggests he’d like nothing more than that, "This shall have to do."

Belle smiles, feeling languid in the aftermath of all that has taken place. She admires the bracelet, the slight weight a sensual reminder and promise of the future. “Thank you.”

Leaning down, Rumplestiltskin kisses her softly, “My pleasure.” 

* * * 

The next night when Rumplestiltskin spins, Belle takes her seat by the fire, book in hand. Unlike previous nights, she falls into the story, eagerly turning the pages until she reaches the end of her tale. It’s nice to be able to read again. Only when the tale is finished does she look up to watch Rumplestiltskin work, spinning a long thread of gold that will undoubtedly be put to good use later that night, if the wicked gleam in his eyes is any indication.

She watches him, the familiar tingle in her core a pleasant sensation rather than a delicious torment. She’s aroused; watching him spin can leave her no other way. His hands, the straw, the gold: all of it makes up a fantastic display that leaves her trying not to squirm in her seat. She watches tonight, as she has for so many nights prior, but this time she doesn’t dwell on straw or gold. She merely watches, eagerly awaiting the moment he looks up from his work and smiles that wicked smile that will drive them both to the nearest bedroom.

The small gold bracelet that rests teasingly on her wrist will be joined by a greater expanse of rope and in her anticipation, Belle can’t resist playing with the bracelet, which almost instantly causes her to moan. Rumple looks over at her, the steady creaking of the wheel silenced by his hand. She boldly meets his eyes and spins the bracelet around her wrist again, inhaling sharply as desire sets in further.

"Patience, my dear," he teases, "Or are you so eager that you’d rather skip the foreplay?"

"No," she gasps, "Spin. I want to watch you. I like to watch you."

The wheel starts up again, and Rumple picks up some straw, glancing at her deviously. “And so you shall.”

Belle watches. And for the first time she doesn’t have to wonder what it’s like to be straw in his hands.

She knows.

**Author's Note:**

> All rights belong to ABC, Adam Horowitz, and Eddy Kitsis.


End file.
